


All's Well That Ends Wilde

by Anonymous



Category: Merlin (TV) RPF
Genre: Angst and Humor, Friendship/Love, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 05:31:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Colin is sick, Bradley's back from LA, and talk of Bunbury Cricket sets the stage for a bit of Wilde banter and a lot of earnest <strike>emissions</strike> admissions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All's Well That Ends Wilde

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for kmm bonbons; inspired by various fandom meme reports, images of Mr. James in cricket whites, and Oscar Wilde. May make more sense if you're familiar with "The Importance of Being Earnest," but really it's more of a fanciful exercise in tin-hatting with a few references thrown in.
> 
> Set roughly the second-to-last week of August (through the 26th), 2013. Thoroughly ungrammatical and wildly untrue.

Even with the support of numerous pillows, Colin's head feels too big for his neck, a heavy fruit on a wilted stem. He's not sure which bit of Bradley it's safest to look at. If at all. Whoever said time heals is a filthy liar, but it turns out absence _does_ make the heart grow… something. Murky. Bruised. Fecking unmanageable. 

'Bunbury?' he says, catching up to Bradley's sprawling tale about recent and upcoming adventures. 'Are you – ?' His voice starts out in the zombie range, mostly growl and rasp, before soaring up into an undignified squawk. He's put in mind of choirboys at the end of their shelf-lives, all sweaty palms and angry spots. Sinful thoughts make for poor complexions, was what Father Loughlin had always said. 

(That had been Colin's first clue that it was all a bit of a con, because he'd had such lovely skin. Everyone had said so. Even Father Loughlin.)

Colin squints up at Bradley. He thinks that the drugs may be making his thoughts a bit squidgy. He thinks that maybe if he focuses on Bradley's general outline filling the space beside the bed, he won't have to see any of the dangerous specifics. 

He tries again. 'Are you… in earnest?' 

On a good day Colin can do deadpan with the best of them, but he's exhausted and on edge; before the penny drops on Bradley's end, Colin's clutching fistfuls of the duvet and laughing at his own joke. The laugh turns into a cough, and the cough soon turns ugly. It feels like lightning in his chest, stabbing pains that flare and shoot across countless nerve endings.

'Ow,' he says, squeezing his eyes closed. His eyeballs feel as if they might pop out of his head.

'You alright, mate? You need anything?'

Colin cracks a lid to see that Bradley has come nearer, hands restless, a little pucker of worry between his brows. His hair is damp, his fringe all rucked up on one side. He's wearing chapstick. Dangerous specifics.

'Wilde,' Colin croaks. 'Bunburying, you know, when Algernon – ' Then the cough-laughing takes him again, and he barely has time to note Bradley's expression of annoyance before closing his eyes again.

'Oh please, Colin, carry on laughing at my expense. It's clearly doing you a world of good.'

The cross words are belied by a firm hand at Colin's shoulder, helping him sit up, and the cool, solid shape of the basin being pressed into his palms. He hunches over it, sweaty and miserable, his whole body wracked with the effort of bringing up gobs of glistening, greenish-yellow phlegm. Bradley slides his hand down between Colin's shoulder blades, rubs circles there, murmuring encouragement until the coughing subsides. 

Before Colin can get too worked up about how disgusting he must seem, Bradley retrieves the basin and sets it aside, unfazed. Colin remembers something his dad once told him: Love might declare itself in grand colours, but the proof of it is in the putty. 

_'Who'll be there to patch your cracks, son? Or better yet – '_ This with a sip from his glass and a wink at Colin's mam. _' – ignore them?'_

Except with Bradley, Colin never knows if it's love or simply… Bradley. Being Bradley. He has an easy way with all his mates, with their bodies – and all they produce – that Colin has long envied. Half the time he feels like an alien in his own skin.

'And I do know the play,' Bradley goes on, 'but you've lost me on the joke. Bunbury was the imaginary friend, yes?'

_'Sick_ friend.' Colin lifts a thumb, tilts it towards his forehead.

'And?' Bradley spies the pint glass and plastic pitcher of water Colin's been using to keep himself hydrated. He tops up the glass and holds it under Colin's nose.

'Bunbury was an imaginary sick friend that Algernon used – ' Colin accepts the water with a grimace and drains the lot before going on. ' – to avoid tedious social engagements.'

'Well, but… One, pretty sure you're real, Cols, if as poorly as I've ever seen you, and two, this isn't tedious in the slightest. It's charity cricket. It's a day out with the lads, lager and sunshine and a chance to rub elbows with some fantastic people – not to mention have a friendly wager on the final Test results, as Rupes tells me Thommo'll be there, and I wouldn’t miss the look on his face for the world when – '

Bradley pauses, scrunching his nose and mouth same as he always did when he thought he'd fluffed a take. Then he sighs.

'You've no idea what I'm talking about, do you?'

Colin grins. 'Nope.' 

'And don’t much care.'

Colin ducks his head, starts to shake it in protest but quickly discovers that that's a bad idea. 'Ah, see, there you're wrong,' he says quietly, almost to himself. He places the empty glass on the night table and settles back into the pillows.

Though he's long given up any tenuous claims on being a primary – or at the very least, regular – source of Bradley's happiness, Colin still cares, to a disturbing degree, about anything that makes him unbend and let loose that great laugh, that great heart, the joyful onslaught of feet, hips, hands…

'Meaning?' Bradley says, all prissy and clipped, and Colin's vision of him bounding down the steps of Pierrefonds – laughing, the sun playing off every part of him, even his stupid teeth – dissipates. 

He's suddenly, painfully aware of his own unwashed state and the stale quiet of his flat. It's far from shabby, but apart from the kitchen it's arguably soulless. Much of his past is still stacked in the corners, in boxes, as he hasn’t had the energy – or the will – to settle in. A jumble of shoes, caps, books, and papers; his free weights, yoga mat and skipping rope; ring stains for one: This is the underbelly of his solitary working life, and it bothers him for Bradley to see it in a way it never has before.

Colin makes the mistake of glancing up and is caught in a familiar stare: yards of stubborn blue, nowhere to hide. He thinks how unfair love is, that it makes you feel as if you're in the wrong when you're the one who's wretched and strung out on antibiotics. 

When, technically, you're the one who'd been left behind.

He holds Bradley's gaze, swallows against a fresh urge to cough. 'What did you tell her? About why you were coming back, I mean?'

Bradley's eyes widen. He lets out a startled huff, lifts a hand to scratch at the back of his head. It's one of his tells: He's unsettled, stalling for time. 'Um, not sure you get to ask that.'

'Still, I'm asking.' 

There is a healthy pause, Bradley's eyes now everywhere but on Colin, his mouth trying on shapes without ever settling into speech.

'Go on,' Colin adds. 'Humour a dying man and all that.'

Bradley's eyes snap to Colin's once more. His breath rushes out in a fury. 'You are not fucking dying, Morgan,' he says, jerking forward, hands raised. Colin braces himself, but Bradley turns and stalks off towards the window, the one that looks out on nothing but brick and a slice of drainpipe. He pauses there, head bowed, hands clenched at his sides.

Colin waits. He watches the back of Bradley and thinks that surely it has to count for something that he'd still know it anywhere, come rain or shine or shredded paper snow. He wonders if he should list it as a special skill on his CV.

Bradley's words, when they arrive, sound as if they've come up the hard way. 'I told her I needed… that you were really ill and – '

Colin snorts. Or rather, he makes a sound that would have been a snort under normal circumstances, but in reality is just air trying to wheeze out around thick plugs of mucous.

'So. See. Real or no, I'm your Bunbury.'

_'And,'_ Bradley says, glancing back over his shoulder, 'that it was time. That I'd had a lovely holiday and given it a go with the auditions, but I had… prior commitments.'

'Prior – ?' is all Colin gets out before Bradley is back at the bedside, looming over him with a pinched frown and hot, accusatory eyes. He slides a hand up Colin's forearm, clasps it. 

'So, more of a Cecily then, genius,' he says gruffly. Before Colin can process what this means, he goes on, 'Look, I've really got to run. Promise me you'll stay put, do as you're told and be one hundred per cent alive come Monday?'

Colin nods, caught between all that blasted blue and the fingertips curling warm and possessive into the tender skin at his inner elbow.

He spends the weekend in a proper muddle, part of which involves fretting over Wilde, trying to parse the exact meaning of Bradley's comments, part of which involves talking himself down off the ledge of hope, and part of which – a rather largish part, admittedly – involves wanking to detailed fantasies of Bradley kitted out like the Fifth Doctor. 

The fantasies have little to do with charity. Or cricket. The celery rarely survives, and Colin suspects that even father Loughlin – who'd spent decades listening to boys' confessions – would be shocked by its fate.

~ * * * ~

By Monday Colin's glands have come down and the vast tide of mucous is on the ebb, but he's still strung out on antibiotic-fuelled insomnia, not to mention all the wanking. It's a bank holiday, so the trains are a mess, and Colin doesn't realise he's been pot-watching the minutes until Bradley is standing in his doorway, eyes fixed on Colin even as he nods and promises Sirada from the second floor that Colin _will_ finish the ginger broth her mother has sent up.

Once the door has closed behind her, Colin's terrified everything will _show,_ all his forbidden hopes heaving under the weight of Bradley's gaze. He's on the verge of bolting to the loo, pleading stomach cramp, swine flu, SARS – anything that will get Bradley out of his flat – when Bradley makes a loud, exaggerated noise of disgust and unslings his bag. He drops down beside Colin on the sofa, close enough that their knees knock together. 

'It's like you have a sign, mate, instead of "kick" it says "coddle," and you can't bloody resist, can you?'

And just like that Colin is grinning into his chest, knowing he's underestimated again. That he's safe. That being with Bradley is easy, always has been, and isn't that the fecking rub?

'Well, my word is my bond, so…" Bradley says in bad American, pulling out his mobile and nodding gravely towards the spoon Colin abandoned on the tea tray. 'Go on then. Get stuck into that and I'll provide the entertainment.' He waits, shielding his mobile screen against his chest and looking at Colin expectantly until he picks up the spoon. 

Colin doesn't roll his eyes, but he thinks it.

The soup is a wonder. The sharp punch of ginger is the first thing Colin's been able to smell properly all week, and the heat feels like heaven on his throat. He makes a little sound of appreciation, putting his face close to the pot and inhaling, wishing he could dive in. 

Beside him, Bradley clears his throat and shifts, pulling his leg away. 'Right then,' he says. 'Dinner and a show.'

As Colin shovels in spoonfuls of soup, Bradley scrolls through various pictures of his day out at Widford. The names and anecdotes mostly go in one ear and out the other, but Bradley's enthusiasm – oh, that sticks. It lodges somewhere deep up under Colin's ribs, compounding all his other aches. He longs to tell Bradley how well cricket whites suit him, for all they are daft and unbearably English. 

Bradley stops mid-thumb-flick and fixes Colin with a stern look. That's when he realises his thoughts have partially slipped out, that he's just muttered, 'Daft and unbearably English.'

'I have only one word for you, Morgan, and do you know what it is? _Hurling._ What is that when it's at home? A mob with sticks who can't make up their bloody minds which sport they're playing.'

Colin chuckles, coughs. He brings up a spray of soup. More soup tries to come out his nose.

'Gah, what the – _Colin!_ ' Bradley leaps up. 'You're meant to drink it, mate, not wear it.' As ever, his put-upon tone is belied by the grace of his gestures, the way he pockets his phone, whisks soup and spoon to a safe distance, then busies himself mopping up the tea tray so Colin can see to his own dignity.

Apparently, though, Colin doesn't do a very good job. When Bradley resumes his seat his eyes go straight to Colin's chin and stick there.

'Missed a spot,' he says. Then, softer, 'Missed you. Colin, I… '

Colin feels Bradley's thumb brushing against his face before his brain even registers that Bradley's reached out, that he's sitting even closer than before. He doesn’t wipe the wet away so much as smear it into Colin's skin. 

Colin holds his breath. He goes a bit cross-eyed trying to follow the path of that thumb.

'Bradley, what – ?'

'I gave you too much space,' Bradley says angrily. He jerks his hand away but remains close, body angled towards Colin, and suddenly the words are tumbling out of him.

'Richard warned me, said to give you space but not too much. I thought we were talking about blocking scenes – we _were_ talking about blocking scenes, I'm sure of it – but Richard has his _layers,_ yes? All that "Oh, don't mind me, I'm just a foolish old man" when all the time he's watching and weighing and doling out tips like… like Strepsils.'

Bradley grabs up the blister pack from the coffee table and tosses it away again with an impatient huff.

'It was too much space,' he repeats, this time sounding not so much angry as mournful. 'LA was too much space, wasn't it?'

Colin nods once, whispers a terse, 'Yep.' He represses the urge to touch his chin, mark the ghost of Bradley's touch.

'I didn't like being that far away from you.' It's said grudgingly, as if the realisation takes Bradley by surprise. 'Even with email. Email's rubbish for… well, for this.'

Colin's closing his eyes, is surrendering to _all_ the ghosts, all the memories of Bradley's full and half-hugs, his pissed neck-wrangling and pleas for shoulder rubs, all the times he's been kissing-close and plainly willing, but Colin wouldn't allow it. Didn't know how to without risking everything he'd worked for.

But today, it seems, Bradley is finished with that game.

When the expected embrace doesn’t come, Colin breathes a sigh – of relief or disappointment, he doesn't quite know – and opens his eyes. And then he forgets _how_ to breathe, forgets everything, because Bradley has pulled his shirt off and tossed it onto the table. He takes Colin's wrist and pulls his hand towards his chest.

'Touch me,' he says, eyes searching Colin's face. Begging. Challenging. 'Like you want to. Go on. There's no one here to see. It doesn't matter now, doesn't even have to mean anything other than that we're – '

'No,' Colin says, splaying his fingers in a (ridiculously) familiar gesture, noting the soft scratch of hair and the warm swell of muscle before his senses are overwhelmed by Bradley's undeniable heart, thump-thudding away beneath his ribs. 'It means… ' He tries, but words fail, and all he can do is shake his head, repeating, 'It _means,_ Bradley. It was always going to mean. That's the trouble.'

'Then what's stopping you?' It's so quiet, so _raw_ that Colin winces. He tears his gaze from the sight of his own hand on Bradley's chest, of Bradley's fingers curled round his wrist. His grip is loose, but his thumb is moving in firm strokes across the back of Colin's hand, urging it to stay.

'I'm a coward,' Colin says. But he meets Bradley's eyes, and he doesn’t pull his hand away. He feels each breath that Bradley draws, each exhale. He counts five of each while they sit there, lost on the edge of something, studying one another for clues.

Colin looks away first, just as Bradley says, 'Only for saying so, Cols. And you're a idiot if you expect me to believe it.'

'I can't do this, though, can’t be your – '

'Bullshit,' Bradley cuts in, shaking his head. 'You've never even _tried,_ and you've no idea what I'm asking.'

'What are you asking then?'

Bradley gives Colin's wrist a squeeze, then slips his hand over Colin's, pressing it tight to his chest. 'For you, for one fucking second, to stop being so bloody precious – we're _actors,_ Colin, no one actually dies on our command, no one gets fed who was going hungry – and admit that you want me. That's it's more than mates and it's not going away, that you were jealous of her. _Jealous,_ when you knew, you had to have known, that any time you wanted, you could have – '

'What? I never – '

'Enough.' Bradley lets go abruptly and stands up; Colin's left gape-mouthed with his hand splayed on the sofa. He thinks that that's it, that Bradley's going to grab his stuff and leave. 

'Bradley. Bradley, wait, don't – ' He watches in amazement as Bradley toes off his trainers and starts unzipping his jeans. 'What are you doing?'

'You have ten minutes, Colin. I'm not asking for anything you're not ready for, but if you can't bring yourself to join me, to at least watch – touch, _something_ – then it's the last you'll hear of it from me. I'll have a wank and get out, and you'll forgive me if I don't come running across the pond next time you snap your fingers.'

The last thing Colin's brain registers before it goes into a silent, Munch-esque howl is the sight of Bradley's rosy, chubby little cock bouncing between his thighs as he struggles out of his pants, the flex of his pale arse and tanned thighs as he strides towards Colin's bedroom. 

'But,' Colin says, intending to protest that he's still sick, that this is all madness anyways, or some sort of cruel hoax. No one's listening though, least of all his prick.

~ * * * ~

Colin has seen Bradley nude before, but only in pieces, and never like this: spread out on Colin's bed, the light from the lamp on the night table picking out the high points of his face and torso and casting the rest into shadow. There is more than enough light, though, to see Bradley's hand moving between his legs, squeezing and stretching his stiffening cock. He clenches his buttocks and squirms like something's missing, and if Colin weren't already shattered, he thinks that this is what would break him.

He leans against the doorframe, tries to rewind, collect himself. 'Did you really call me your Cecily the other day?' 

Bradley stills, thighs going lax. He sighs. 'That’s what you want to talk about right now? Random Wilde references?'

'Seems apt, no?' Colin's trying for saucy, but his voice breaks. He winds up sounding slightly hysterical.

Bradley lets go of his cock and flops back. 'I give up,' he says, more to the ceiling than to Colin. 'I _should_ give up. Tell me again why I fancy you. Tell me why I do this to myself when you – _Colin!_ ' Bradley lifts his head up without moving the rest of him. It doesn’t look comfortable. 'Why are you so difficult?'

'Why are you so easy?' Colin slings back.

Bradley's mouth falls open, and he pushes himself up onto his elbows. 'You little sh– '

'Wait! Wait, I didn't mean it like that. I… ' Bradley's sitting up now. Colin has no doubt that he'd be pulling on his clothes if he hadn’t left them all in the lounge, and the thought that Bradley is about to go from naked in his bed to _gone_ is what finally propels him into the room. 

He reaches for an ankle, half-expecting to be kicked for his trouble, but Bradley stills under his touch. 'I meant for me. Easy for me.' Colin watches Bradley's face closely, because it's important that he get this, but Bradley's blanking him. All he sees is a mass of storm clouds, a slab of unyielding jaw. 

'To fall for,' Colin goes on, dropping his gaze to where his thumb rests on the bony knob of Bradley's ankle. 'Arse over tit, so. Easy to risk everything for, follow anywhere, be… be a complete moron over. You see?'

'You're not doing a very good job at love if you aren't a bit of a moron at some point.' Bradley gives a quiet snort. 'At least that's what my mum tells me.'

'Is that what this is then?' Colin gives Bradley's ankle a tug, looks up. Bradley's face is open once more, but there's still a hint of defiance.

'You tell me, Cols. I think I've already shown my hand here.'

Colin chuckles from sheer nerves, allows his eyes to rove over chest, belly, thighs, groin… oh sweet fecking _hell._ 'Shown far more than that, mate.'

'Colin.' 

It's said fondly, wearily, and while the former tone makes Colin's heart give a happy fist-punch, it is the latter that spurs him to action.

'Yes,' he says, letting go of Bradley's ankle so he can clamber onto the bed. He pushes Bradley's thighs wide enough to kneel between and brushes his palms over his shoulders. Then he settles his grip, allowing himself to acknowledge the fit, the rightness of it. He nods, blinks, pulls in a shaky breath.

'Since the first – no, the second – time we met. The first time I thought you were rude and more than a bit thick, but when they brought you back I saw you in the corridor, with that woman, do you remember?'

Bradley shakes his head in a puzzled 'no' as he slips his hands onto Colin's thighs. He's in work mode, gaze flicking between Colin's eyes and mouth. It's taken Colin months, _years_ to get over the distracting implications and just enjoy this for what it is: Bradley's undivided attention.

Now he's right back where he started. Smitten. Babbling.

'I'd nipped out to the loo. You were just arriving, and something must have happened on the way because you were all sweaty and peevish. Then along comes this woman with a great stack of files, trailing a bit of loo roll from her shoe. And what did you do? Stepped on it as she passed by, toed it off to the side, broke out your Sunday best smile and offered to give her a hand. Do you remember now?'

Bradley purses his lips, tilts his head. 'Not really, no. Why, was she someone important?'

'Feck if I know,' Colin says, grinning. 'That's just it. Most people – most decent people – would have had a quiet word in her ear, pointed it out, maybe held her things while she sorted herself, but you… Bradley, your first instinct was to solve the problem yourself, to save her any embarrassment. You risked being late for the audition of your life because you were being a perfect gentleman. To a perfect stranger. That's when I knew there could never be another Arthur.' 

Colin slides his hands in and up, loving the girth of Bradley's neck, the contrast between the strong tendons and the soft down that gives way to his hair proper. 'That's when I knew I was doomed.'

Bradley tips his head back into Colin's hands, lips quirking at the corners. 'Doomed, really, just 'cause you fancied me? Bit harsh, don’t you think?'

Colin shrugs. 'Blame Father Loughlin. Most people do.'

'Most people?' Bradley lifts his eyebrows.

'Exes,' Colin admits. 'Or would have been, if I'd ever given 'em half a chance to start.'

Bradley makes a smug, humming sound. 'And what if I think it's just you, Colin? What if I think it's not the Church, not your family, just _you_ making up all these rules for yourself, all these boxes and…" He scowls, looks at Colin all constipated like he does when he needs a line.

'Thingies?' It's the best he can come up with Bradley's precious head cradled in his hands, Bradley's cock listing towards his knee.

'Thingies, yes, thank you Colin. You bury yourself under all these _thingies_ because you don't trust your own talents, or that you're worth something outside the work. That you're allowed to _be_ somebody outside the work.' Bradley rubs Colin's thighs, grips them. 'Like that… like you think it's all going to dry up, that you'll be put on the dole and sent back to Armagh if you have the odd bit of selfish fun. If you let slip that your cock works, that your heart's not made of stone.'

It's closer to the truth than Colin wants to admit, so he seizes on the flaw in the argument, hoping five years of exposure to Bradley's Official Worldview won't fail him now. He leans in, puts his lips up to Bradley's ear and says, 'What are you even doing here then? You can't stand martyrs.'

'You're not a martyr; you're just stupidly hard on yourself.' Bradley brings his left hand up, trapping Colin's head in place. 'And I'm here, Colin, because I got tired of wondering why LA felt so lonely and what would happen if I ever pushed you. So you should probably kiss me now. Unless you're still contagious.' He rears back to look Colin in the eyes. 'God, you're not, are you? Say you’re not.'

'Dunno,' Colin mumbles, feeling a bit deer-in-headlights. 'Don’t think so, but I'm still kind of disgusting.'

'Lies,' Bradley says firmly. 'Filthy lies. I hope, Colin, I shall not offend you if I state quite frankly and openly that you seem to me to be in every way the visible personification of absolute perfection.'

'Was that – ?' Colin smirks in recognition. 'Who's making free with the Wilde now?'

'It seemed – what was the word you used? Apt. Very _apt,_ Colin.'

'Indeed.' 

Colin kisses him first with lips closed, on the forehead. It's a clumsy kiss, a mere fumble and press of lips, and it feels too much like saying goodbye when Colin wants acres of good mornings and goodnights, so he does it again. 

And again. 

He kisses forehead and temples and cheeks and jaw, bracketing his lips with his thumbs, stroking Bradley's face. It's become leaner over the years, all the angles more pronounced, the lines settling in. Colin thinks he's never been more handsome. 

Bradley keeps still, breathing in hot, short sips. He's clearly enjoying the attention but holding back, letting Colin take the lead. This tugs at something low in Colin's belly, makes all the tension there melt, swirl, reform into a tight knot of longing. He knows if Bradley moves his right hand just an inch or two higher, he'll be able to feel Colin growing hard. 

Colin noses his way back into the confidence of Bradley's left ear.

'Bradley?' It comes out so desperate he almost doesn't recognise his own voice.

Bradley hums in response, toying with the ends of Colin's hair.

'It's not that I don't… Only, I haven't slept in days. Not properly. I want too many things, been wanting this for too long and I've no clue what you – just show me, please?'

There's a brief moment where everything is suspended, then Bradley surges forward, gets his legs under him. 

'Oh I'll show you,' he says, gripping the hem of Colin's shirt and yanking up. It sounds like a threat which, given the positions they're in, strikes Colin as hilarious. He's laughing even before his shirt gets stuck over his face, his own elbows at cross-purposes with Bradley's efforts to strip him.

Bradley makes no move to free him, just bowls him over with a grunt. He pushes and tugs until Colin is on his back with his arms trapped up around his ears, the wrong way round on his bed and helpless with laughter, face straining against the grey cotton.

Then Colin feels warm breath on his stomach and fingers dipping into the waistband of his track pants. His laugh stutters, stops.

Bradley picks up where Colin's left off, letting out a rich chuckle. 'Hmm. You look almost good like this. Very Dexter.' He gives Colin's belly a sound, smacking kiss, noses at it until Colin is writhing. His fingers tug, tease, but never go anywhere remotely useful. 'But – '

Suddenly, Bradley's warmth and weight are gone. Colin feels the mattress shift, hears the frame creak.

' – I like skin more. Go on, get your kit off and show me what a big boy you are. You know you're dying to.'

Wordlessly, Colin struggles the rest of the way out of his t-shirt, shoves down track pants and boxer briefs. His face feels as if it’s burning, but his shame has nothing on his arousal now, and Bradley is kneeling at the head of the bed watching him with cat eyes, cock stiff, chest and belly heaving.

'Erm, socks?' Colin's heard they can be a deal-breaker in such situations.

'Those too.'

'You know my feet get a bit – '

'I know. Last thing I'm bothered about right now.' 

Colin glances up and sees that Bradley is smiling. It's only a small smile, fond, fleeting, but it reminds Colin that there is nothing here to fear after all, that Bradley _does_ know.

This realisation strips away any shyness, any last doubts, and what comes in its place isn't the fierce, bubbling excitement before going on stage or the giddy high of after. It's more, Colin thinks, like what he felt for the soup. It is a wonder, a comfort, and he wants to dive right in.

He peels off his socks and stretches out on the bed – _his_ bed, he reminds himself, that Bradley has taken over in his typical Bradley way, bare arse all over his pillows – propping an arm behind his head. He reaches for himself with the other. He holds Bradley's gaze as he gathers his balls, gives them a good roll and a soft squeeze before gripping his cock. 

Hard, he's amused to note, he _is_ quite a bit bigger than Bradley, which he could give a shit about except Bradley seems to care, to find it fascinating somehow, which makes it Colin's business.

'This what you've been after?'

'Mmm.' Bradley makes a show of looking him up and down, but his eyes keep snagging in the middle. 'Damn but you're…' He bites his lip, gaze flicking back up to meet Colin's. 

Colin blinks. 'Yes?' he says, and begins to stroke in earnest. 

Bradley's exhale is the loudest thing in the room. He shuffles closer, leans forward, runs his palms up Colin's hairy shins. 'How is it you're so pretty, Cols, and yet a beast under your clothes?'

'A beast, is it now? Get off.'

'You know what I mean.'

'Do I?'

'Your sweet face versus your… ' Bradley trails off, but it's not hard to fill in the blank, given where he's looking. 'Plus you've put a bit of muscle on again, haven’t you, a wee bit of manly, macho – '

'Bradley?'

'Hmm?'

'Shut your face and c'mere.'

'Oh, Colin! At last!' Bradley cries, once more channelling Algernon as he sprawls on top of Colin.

It's a delightful clash of cocks and limbs, the laughter crushed out of Colin's chest, swallowed by Bradley's mouth on his. This is no stage kiss, no shy press of lips. It's an absolute _devouring,_ a thorough tongue-in-mouth, I-know-what-you-ate-for-supper type of kiss. It's the way he's always wanted to be kissed, made all the better by the addition of the real soundtrack – the wet swallows and eager, throaty hums – and the faint scents of Bradley's antiperspirant and shampoo giving way to sweat and proper musk.

Just when Colin's starting to get a grip, to realise that yes, this is really happening and no, he's in no way prepared because he's a condomless workaholic, fecking _hell,_ Bradley pulls back with an 'mmpf,' and rummages behind him, up amongst Colin's pillows. He holds something up – a bottle – and waggles it back and forth.

'So,' he says breathlessly, 'I found this by your bed.'

Colin struggles up onto his elbows, sees that Bradley's holding lube. Colin's lube, the very stuff he's been wanking with. 'Well done you. But I haven’t anything else, so…'

'Oh. No, yeah, I didn't expect, um – ' Flustered, Bradley scrubs his free hand through his hair. 'Should have thought of that though. Poor planning on my part. But.' He watches Colin, rubs his thumb over the cap. Then he flicks it open, wets his lips with his tongue. 'Speaking of Wilde, fancy a go between my thighs?'

Colin, as it happens, does. Very much so. He's no idea how it's going to work exactly, but he's been told he's a bright lad, he's limber, and Bradley's good at giving direction. So.

They start out face to face but get distracted by more kissing and, for Colin, touching Bradley in ways – not to mention places – he's only imagined. 

Thumbs to lips, to nipples. Open mouth to arching throat. Naked palm to bare hip, to belly, fingers dipping in and out of that wide bellybutton, lightly scratching along the sparse trail of hair below until Bradley squirms and Colin's fingers slide lower, into the mat of curls between his legs, and bump up against the satin skin of his cock. 

Bradley is impatient and bossy, but he's also generous. He lets Colin explore. He seems pleased and even surprised by Colin's attentions, his eagerness to touch, then follow his fingers with lips and tongue. But when Colin's worked his way down to Bradley's balls, fondling them while rubbing his cheek against the length of his cock and thinking how badly he wants to throw caution to the wind and just stuff the lot in his mouth, Bradley calls cut.

'Hey, hey,' he says, pulling his hips back and digging his fingers into Colin's hair. 'Easy there, or I'll never – shit, where'd that slick go?'

Colin's not best pleased about being interrupted. It must show, as Bradley takes one look at his face, gives a short laugh and shoves him away.

'Don't look at me like that. Believe me, I'd like nothing better; I'll trot right out and buy a crate of curry-flavoured condoms tomorrow, but for right – Aha!'

Face lit up, Bradley rolls onto his side and fishes the lube bottle out from a fold in the duvet. The clear gel is oozing out the open cap, has made the bottle all slippery. 'Here, let's – whoops!'

Bradley manages to squirt a healthy puddle of the stuff into one palm, but in the process the bottle slips from his grasp, leaks more lube all down his forearm.

Now it's Colin's turn to chuckle. 'Don't care how much you want it, mate, I'm not shagging your elbow-pit.' Seeing as he's had sinful thoughts about nigh on every square inch of Bradley over the years, that's saying something.

'Your loss then. I'm sure I give good elbow.' Bradley pulls a face. 'Here, help me get this bloody thing closed, would you? Then we can – '

Colin cuts him off with a kiss, as his duvet's already for the wash and waiting even one more second seems unbearable. He knocks the bottle aside, scoops as much of the lube as he can from Bradley's hand and arm and smears it over both their cocks and down between Bradley's legs. Bradley makes a breathy 'ah' sound, parts his thighs to allow Colin better access. 

They thrust against one another mindlessly, everything almost too slick to really feel. At one point Colin's middle finger grazes Bradley's arsehole and he makes a sound low in his throat that puts Colin's blood on the boil. 

It emboldens him to say, 'Would you be wanting that then, sometime?'

Bradley's only response is to groan Colin's name like it's a curse before claiming his mouth in another bruising kiss. He gets Colin's neck all sticky with the residual lube from his hands, then flips over, scooting back so his arse is pressed up against Colin's groin. He reaches behind him, fumbling for Colin's cock. Colin feeds it between Bradley's thighs, reminds himself to breathe. 

It takes a bit of shifting at first, a bit of Colin figuring out where to put his hands to best effect and Bradley trying to set the pace despite Colin being the one doing the humping, but when they get it right it is _so fecking good,_ and Colin's totally getting why odes were written to men's thighs, should be written – if they haven't yet been – to the swell of Bradley's arse right where it becomes his legs and the sensation of his slicked-up balls dragging along the shaft of Colin's prick.

When the pleasure stops building and threatens to break, he reaches around to give Bradley a helping hand. 

'Ungh,' Bradley grunts. He bats Colin's hand away from where he's fucking into his own fist. 'Harder, Cols. Faster. Grab my… _godyes._ Like that.'

~ * * * ~

Many minutes later, when they are lying in a sticky tangle, exultant with their success, Colin finds himself telling Bradley what his dad said, about the paint and the putty. About the calm, quiet, workaday kind of love his parents have, and how terrifying it had been at fourteen to think that he'd never have that. That perhaps he didn't deserve it.

Bradley rolls onto his side, snags Colin around the middle and pulls him close, in the reverse of their earlier position. He nuzzles his ear, the back of his neck. 

Colin wants to be terrified of the things he's revealing to Bradley, to be ashamed at craving this sort of comfort from him, but he finds that he just… isn't. Bradley is Bradley, Bradley is here now, with him, and Colin is content. 

Then Bradley breaks the easy silence with, 'He has a way with words, your dad. Will he want to murder me very much at Christmas, do you think?'

'Christmas?' Puzzled, Colin tries to look back, but Bradley's nose is in the way, his chin propped on Colin's shoulder. 'What d'you mean, Christmas?'

Bradley yawns. 'Probably just give me a talking to,' he says, as if he hasn't heard Colin. 'Awkward, but preferable to death. My _mum,_ now, that's a different story. She and Georgia are thick as thieves. I expect she'll have got over being miffed at you by then – she's always known, I think, or at least suspected – but she's loyal. And my sisters will be unbearable. We'll be teased within an inch.'

'It's _August,_ Bradley. Are you seriously planning – '

Bradley cuts Colin off with a sharp squeeze, rocking against him. 'I figure it's probably best to split the time, maybe even have a third option – Rupes, do you think, or will he be shacked up with some lovely off in foreign parts? Anyway, we should have some sort of excuse if things get really hairy.'

By this point Colin's shaking with silent laughter.

'What?' Bradley sounds sleepy. Cross.

'Bunbury,' Colin says. 'Bunbury, _of course._ I expect our dear friend will be very ill come Christmas.'

'Ha! Yes. Brilliant. Now,' Bradley yawns again – hugely – in Colin's ear. 'Before I fall asleep, I've one more question.'

'Oh?' 

'Are you going to be here come morning?'

'Uh.' Colin wants to point out that this is _his_ flat, that even if he panics he's hardly going to leave it, but the sex and all the easy, loose talk of the future has left him feeling giddy. He bites his lip instead, hums, pretends to consider.

'Not necessarily.' He feels Bradley tense up and suddenly feels like a complete shit. He's not used to meaning this much. It's something, he thinks, he'll need to work on.

'Because you'll be wanting breakfast, yes?' he adds quickly, plucking at Bradley's arm. He brings his knuckles to his lips, kisses them. 'So I'll need to go out. I haven't much beyond tea and porridge. And Strepsils. Yum.'

Bradley huffs out a laugh, a warm gust on Colin's neck. He relaxes once more, uncurling his fingers and patting Colin on the mouth. 'Well, for the sake of the thing, you should get in whatever it was that Algernon fancied, in the play – what was it again?'

Colin smiles against Bradley's fingers. 'Champagne,' he says, because he skimmed the damn thing not twenty-four hours back. 'And cucumber sandwiches.'

'Breakfast of champions,' Bradley murmurs, sliding his arm back down.

'Breakfast of kings,' Colin replies, but Bradley's drifting off into sleep. His fingers go lax. His leg jerks, like a dog after a dream-rabbit, and for the first time in what seems like forever, Colin feels – Colin _knows_ – that all's well.

And that this is nothing like an ending.

~ * * * ~

**Author's Note:**

> Bunbury (the cricket club) raises money for charity (and cricket youth development) by fielding celebrity teams and charging punters a pretty penny to a come and watch. The match referred to here was held at the Ware Cricket Club's grounds in Widford, Hertfordshire.
> 
> Bunbury (the character) belongs to Oscar Wilde, as do Algernon, Cecily, and any of their lines quoted or paraphrased herein.
> 
> Thommo = Jeff Thomson, a famous Australian bowler (cricket bowler, that is).
> 
> Sirada and Father Loughlin = figments of my imagination.


End file.
